


The Perfect Partner

by TheUniverseIsRarelySoLazy



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Happy Ending, M/M, Magic AU, Spellcasting, Witches
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-09
Updated: 2020-11-09
Packaged: 2021-03-09 04:00:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,118
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27478450
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheUniverseIsRarelySoLazy/pseuds/TheUniverseIsRarelySoLazy
Summary: Mycroft Holmes has been lonely long enough. It’s time to call on the supernatural.
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade
Comments: 10
Kudos: 136
Collections: Mark Gatiss birthday collection 2020





	The Perfect Partner

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Lavender_and_Vanilla](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lavender_and_Vanilla/gifts).



> This has been written based on a prompt by the lovely Lavender_and_Vanilla for the MG Birthday Auction. Thank you again, especially for donating!

There are many things the world doesn’t know about Mycroft Holmes.

Here are three of these things: He enjoys pineapple jam. He often listens to popular music and has a special fondness for Lady Gaga. He has a whole conservatory built into his townhouse on the outskirts of London, filled with flowers and herbs, which he takes care of meticulously.

Though the last fact has something to do with a secret, which absolutely no one knows, except for his parents and his siblings: Mycroft Holmes is a witch.

Yes, witches are generally supposed to be female, yet that is just rumour believed by people, who have never seen one, or been in contact with a witch family. Long ago, a number of people in this world had been blessed with magic powers by a benevolent spirit. They were all living in the same village, and collectively saved the spirit in its hour of need. All descendants of these people inherit the power, but only ever the first-born. It doesn’t matter if it is a boy or a girl. So it has happened that upon his birth, Mycroft has been blessed with powers, which would both aid him in his life and would need to be kept completely hidden.

Sherlock hates him for inheriting the power, but he would never expose Mycroft, which is a blessing in itself. While he often taunts Mycroft with the fact that he could tell everyone, this is the one rule he never breaks. Eurus… well, let’s not talk about Eurus. 

While Mycroft keeps to himself, practicing witchcraft in secret, he has never once used it to influence his work. He is simply too proud to rely on magical methods, even though they are second nature to him. But if he sometimes reheats his tea or makes a strawberry bush bear fruit in winter, that is for no one to know but himself.

“Ouch!”

“Hold still, Sherlock.”

“Easy for you to say. You’re not the one getting cut up for some magic trick.”

Mycroft rolls his eyes and gifts his brother a look which says ‘Really?’.

“Yes, really,” Sherlock replies. “What do you even need this for? What you told me about your garden is just an excuse. You wouldn’t need human blood for something to do with plants.”

“Look who’s an expert on witchcraft now,” Mycroft says drily.

“I can read. Also we grew up in the same household. The least you could do after I volunteered, is to tell me what this is for.”

Mycroft hesitates. He swirls the collected blood in the glass vial, seals it and brushes his fingers over Sherlock’s arm. Under his hand, the cut closes up like it had never existed.

“I can’t.”

“Of course you can, you’re just embarrassed. It’s clearly written on your face.”

“Yes, well. Congratulations on your deduction. I’ll tell you once it’s done. If it’s successful, you will learn about it anyway.”

“Suit yourself. But I’m telling mommy you’re using blood spells.”

“How do you think she keeps her rose garden flourishing? It’s certainly not the fertilizer alone.”

Sherlock scoffs. He rolls down his sleeve and fixes the buttons on his wrist. Then he snatches his suit jacket from a nearby chair and makes for the exit. But before he leaves, he turns around and eyes his brother intently.

“Whatever it is, just do it safely,” he says.

“Always,” Mycroft lies… and he knows Sherlock can see through it. Yet neither of them acknowledges it and just like that, Sherlock is gone.

Mycroft holds the glass vial close. The blood is still warm. It needs to be, for the start. When he hears the front door close, he walks as fast he can towards his conservatory. It’s not a complete lie. It has to do with plants… but only with one, very particular plant. He has acquired the seed from a witch acquaintance, who is breeding rare magical plants high up in the Andean Mountains. It needs fresh human blood to germinate and a lot of magic to grow. But it will be worth it, hopefully.

A dark corner, directly against the wall, is prepared for it. Mycroft puts the seed onto the wet earth. Then he uncorks the vial and pours the blood over it while saying the spell.

“May you grow while absorbing my deepest desire along with my magic, so that your fruit may fulfill it.”

The seed glows with a golden light before it sinks into the earth on its own, and from it a sprout shoots up, the two leaves unfolding not green, but blood red. Mycroft swallows. This is it. It worked. The instructions are very specific. Every night at midnight, he has to transfer a large part of his magic reserves to the plant, while thinking about his wish, his desire. The plant would manifest it after four days. 

Four. A normal number in England, an auspicious one in China, where the plant is originally from. Four is Shi in Chinese. Shi also means death. Chinese buildings often skip floor number four, or the fourth seat row in airplanes… just as the Western world skips the number 13. He has been assured the number has nothing to do with the spell, that it is just a coincidence… but Mycroft has learned not to trust coincidences in witchcraft. The universe is rarely so lazy and magic always contains hidden patterns.

He glances at his watch. Just after nine. About three more hours until the first ritual. He gets up and brushes the dirt from his shoes. Even though it is mostly dark in the conservatory, the plant glows faintly red. Mycroft can’t help but think about what he has to do later and his ears grow red. Well, there won’t be anyone to see him.

—————————— 

Almost a bottle of port wine later, Mycroft finds himself inside the conservatory once again. He has brought a cushion and puts it in front of the plant, sits on it cross legged. He doesn’t feel silly talking to the plant. He has often talked to them, expressed his wishes on how they should grow, shared the happenings of the day with them. But never like this.

He waves his hand and the light in the room almost completely disappears, shutting out the moon and the surrounding buildings. He looks at the glow of the plant and says its name in perfectly pronounced Chinese.

“I hope you can make my wish come true,” he says and opens himself up.

Immediately he feels the drain, the hunger of the plant, pulling at him. It’s so sudden, it’s almost painful, yet he keeps upright and lets it eat. Like a vampire, he muses. No wonder it needed the blood. But it’s worth it, if his wish comes true.

“Hear my desire, so you may fulfill it. I am… so very lonely,” he says and even though he promised himself not to cry, his voice breaks upon saying the truth out loud. “Because of my nature, I cannot invite just anyone to be my partner. I have, in the past, attempted to introduce the partners I had to this truth, but they all rejected me and had to have their memories removed… which meant all of them. They… they…”

Mycroft sobs openly now, wiping his eyes on his sleeve as the plant continuously saps his strength. He feels himself crumble in so many ways.

“They forgot me completely, while I continued to love… I cannot do it anymore. I cannot hope like this anymore, only to be crushed. So, please… please, summon the perfect partner for me, who will accept me as I am. It’s all I want, all I desire.”

The plant doesn’t answer. Of course it doesn’t. The pull remains the same. Mycroft is a strong witch. He can easily feed the plant. But there is something else he must do. He has to give a very certain piece of himself to it. His hands wander lower, to the bulge in his trousers. It has been there since he started talking to the magical plant. He wants to make quick work of it, but this isn’t how it’s supposed to go. So he takes his time and lets an image form in his mind. There is a psychic connection to the spell here, and through this fantasy he can subconsciously accept or refuse the suggestions it gives him. As he closes his eyes and starts to stroke, a vision floods his mind. He instinctively strokes harder, faster, panting. His mind goes offline.

When he comes to, he has spilled over the ground. Witchcraft is often messy. It’s a riot of bodily fluids, if you cast certain spells. Spells to do with humans.

Mycroft tucks himself back in. The pull of the plant has stopped. It now glows brightly like a neon sign. Mycroft feels completely drained. He gets up and stumbles towards his bedroom, falling asleep immediately.

—————————————————— 

Mycroft wakes at 11:30 on the next day. He’s taken the week off because he knew something like this would happen. Until the plant is fully grown, all he needs to do is fill up his magic reserves and rest. He allows himself a hearty brunch, including toast with pineapple jam and Lady Gaga in the background.

The plant will need some more human blood on the last day. He will have to draw it from a willing person on the day before. Of course it is once again Sherlock he will ask, like he always does. Mycroft resolves to call him before going to the park to bolster his magic energy. This was one reason to buy this particular house: The proximity to a very, very old oak directly on a ley line. It is a convenient place to refill and meditate, with the advantage of looking like a yoga enthusiast while doing so, completely inconspicuous.

When he calls his brother, he doesn’t pick up, which is unusual. Sherlock is normally very eager to participate in the witchcraft rituals he can’t practice himself. Mycroft is just about to leave the house when his mobile rings.

“Mycroft. What do you want? I’m busy.”

“With what?”

“None of your business.”

“Fine. I need you in two days, for another donation. The initial spell worked.”

“A spell stretching over several days? Ambitious and suspicious. Am I allowed to know what it’s about yet?”

“Absolutely not. Will you do it?”

“Will I do it so you don’t pluck someone off the street like a third-rate vampire and steal their blood? Of course. I’ll be at your place in the evening.”

“Thank you.”

“If that is all…”

Mycroft listens intently at the background noises.

“Are you at a hospital? Did something happen?”

“Yes, but not to me.”

“Is it John?”

“No. Lestrade. He had an accident last night. Traffic. John made me come over and visit him.”

“Is it bad?”

“He veered off the street and bumped into a garden wall. Claims to have blacked out for a moment. A bruised arm, slight head trauma because of the airbag. Nothing serious. I don’t even know why I’m here. It’s not like he’s dying.”

“Sherlock…” Mycroft hears John in the background.

“If that’s all?” Sherlock asks.

“Yes. That’s all. See you soon.”

“Brother.”

The line cuts off. Mycroft stares at his phone screen. There is nothing surprising about Lestrade getting injured, though he expects it to be through his work, not… not like this. Out of curiosity, he logs into one of his accounts to access the accident report. Just like Sherlock said. With his car, last night, 0:10AM. Wait. 0:10AM? That was when Mycroft… No. It couldn’t have any connection.

He turns off the screen, turns towards the door. Then he reaches for his phone again. Puts it away again. Not his business. He has other matters to concentrate on.

————————————— 

The next two days, Mycroft’s pattern doesn’t change. He murmurs his deepest desires, hopes and fears at night, feeding the plant with magic and hope. When he takes himself in hand, his mind wanders towards his perfect partner, but as soon as he comes, he forgets who he’s seen. It doesn’t matter. He will meet him soon. A perfect, magical being, just for him. One, who accepts him as he is.

Just before eight at night on the third day of the spellcasting, Sherlock arrives. He is uncharacteristically quiet at first, accompanies Mycroft to his laboratory and automatically rolls up his sleeve.

“Take what you need, vampire.”

“I can’t thank you enough.”

“Maybe you shouldn’t. You look like shit.”

“Much obliged.”

“Have you been awake all this time?”

Mycroft lets a bit of his magic seep into the knife and makes a cut on Sherlock’s arm. His brother doesn’t even wince anymore. The dark red liquid drops slowly into a bowl.

“No, but I might as well have. The spell takes a lot of energy.”

“Are you trying to get rid of all Tories in the land, or what?”

Mycroft barks a laugh, some blood drops spilling as he shakes. “No. It’s a completely personal matter.”

“Mycroft… You’re not…”

“I’m not what?” Mycroft challenges him with a stern look and tone.

“Never mind. I would tell you not to do anything stupid, but you’re clearly beyond that.”

“And yet you’re here to donate your blood.”

“What can I say? Despite everything I still love you, big brother.”

With that Mycroft is stunned into silence.

———————————————

Sherlock is on his way out, when he turns around once more.

“Lestrade is still in the hospital, if it’s of any significance to you.”

“You said they were minor injuries.”

“They kept him to monitor his head trauma, since he was very sleepy during the day. When he didn’t wake up during the morning checkup, he was put on a drip. Apparently he came around during the afternoon and has been awake since.”

“Strange.”

“Indeed. I will investigate. I… I owe him a lot.”

“Did John put you up to this?”

“Give me a bit of credit, will you?”

And Sherlock is gone again, doesn’t even wait for Mycroft to close his wound. Mycroft walks back to his lab and stares at the blood. Coincidence again? Why would Lestrade of all people… He shakes his head, puts the bowl of blood into a fridge. Just because he’s practicing witchcraft, doesn’t mean he can’t use modern conveniences.

That night, when he feels himself soften in his hand, he wishes he could remember the visions. His subconsciousness will steer him right, he knows it. Still. The perfect partner for the rest of his life. He can’t help but be curious. It’s only natural. He goes to sleep completely exhausted and passes out for almost 20 hours, completely drained.

It’s dark again when he wakes. Just one more ritual. Then the blood. In the morning, something should happen. He forces himself to eat more than he can stomach, especially the flowers from his own moonlight garden. His energy reserves are suitably bolstered, but his body is complaining. Loudly. No matter. It’s the last night.

Mycroft drags himself into the conservatory. The plant looks the same as on the first day. That, in and of itself, is nothing unusual. But for the first time he is afraid of it. The red glow feels even more menacing today, he dreads the anticipated drain. What if he doesn’t survive it this time? What if it takes more than he has?

“Four days,” he murmurs. “Four days… death days…”

In the end the deep seated feeling of loneliness and desperation win over any fear he could possibly have. He sits down once again, opens himself up, pours out his heart. In the end he takes himself in hand once more. It’s not difficult. The ritual makes him feel so aroused it’s almost unbearable. With his last strength he pours the blood over the leaves, staining it an even darker red and promptly passes out.

——————————————— 

The next morning, Mycroft wakes up alone on the earthy ground. He coughs and shakes, shivers passing through him like he is running a high fever. He can barely push himself upwards… and then he sees it. The plant has grown. Tremendously. Red vines stretch out over the floor, along the wall, the ceiling. They have enveloped his limbs and body. He has to get out of them. They’re still sucking away at his energy. He gets on his knees, rips off the flimsy growth and finally manages to stand.

On the wall in front of him hangs a singular fruit. It looks like a small apple and the irony isn’t lost on him. He steps forward and plucks it. At that moment the whole plant collapses under itself, leaves and vines wilting in seconds until it turns to dust. It’s like it has never been there, but the fruit is still in Mycroft’s hand. He feels its weight, much heavier than it looks.

Before he can change his mind he swallows it whole.

Nothing happens.

His body feels the same. No one appears. The plant is gone. There’s only the soft light of the morning sun and the distant twitter of birds.

Mycroft waits. And waits. And waits.

Still: Nothing.

He stares in disbelief. All this? All of it? For nothing? His hair stands up in rage. The mosaic tiles on the floor beneath him detach from the floor and shoot outwards shattering the glass walls of the conservatory while he screams in desperation.

“So I’m destined to be alone forever?” he cries. “I can’t find happiness? Not even through magic? Then what is it good for anyway?”

The plants around him burst into flames. The whole garden burns while he stands in the middle, hot tears running down his face, until finally he crumbles, curled up on the floor, sobbing at his own inadequacy and the cruelty of the universe.

Then his phone rings. He ignores it. It doesn’t stop. It’s Sherlock.

“What?” Mycroft yells into it.

“It’s Lestrade. He’s been in a coma for two days, but he just woke up. He’s asking for you.”

Mycroft's heart stops. With it, the flames die down. The charred vegetation smells horrible.

“I’ll be there.”

——————————————— 

Mycroft waits outside the room until Sherlock opens the door. They exchange a look, which makes Mycroft shrink. He takes a few steps back to let Sherlock come out into the hallway and close the door behind him.

“What did you do to him?”

“To Inspector Lestrade? Nothing. My spell has nothing to do with him.”

“The timing is too suspicious.”

“It couldn’t possibly have anything to do with him.”

“Why? What did you do?”

Mycroft looks up and down the hallway. There are other people walking in the distance, but they are still too close. No one can know. He grabs Sherlock’s arm and drags him to the staircase, pushes him through the door. It’s quiet in there. They’re alone.

“I bought a plant,” he says, naming it in Chinese. “It required human blood to grow.”

“And magic. A lot of it. From you.”

“Yes. That obvious?”

“Brother, you look like a zombie.”

“Thank you. So the plant, it… I wanted it to… It’s for wish fulfilment.”

Sherlock frowns. “What kind of wish can’t you make true through your own powers?”

“You remember Lauren? Oliver? Zaid?” Mycroft asks and his heart breaks further with every uttered name. “You remember what happened to them?”

“They left you after learning about your powers.”

“They didn’t leave. Their memories were cleaned and I disappeared from them completely. They’re each living a wonderful life, and I watch them from afar while my heart still yearns. It kills me, Sherlock. I cannot go through this again. I am lonely. I tried. I tried to be alone, but I’m wasting away. I may seem like I’m well enough on my own, but I am not. The plant was supposed to summon a perfect partner for me. One who wouldn’t run away. I can’t take the risk anymore.”

Mycroft turns away, wiping the tears from his eyes. It is embarrassing. He sounds so needy. It’s a disgrace. So when Sherlock hugs him from behind, he first freezed completely, then tries to push him off.

“No, don’t,” Sherlock says and puts his forehead against Mycroft’s shoulder. “I’m sorry I didn’t notice. I didn’t know.”

“Mommy wiped their memories to preserve the secret after they each freaked out. You weren’t to know.”

Sherlock is silent for a moment, then digs his fingers into Mycroft’s clothes.

“Come with me. I think I know what happened.”

“What?” Mycroft stammers as he is dragged along, back out into the hallway.

They end up at Lestrade’s door. Sherlock looks at Mycroft with commiseration, but also hope.

“The spell seemed like it didn’t work, right?”

Mycroft nods.

“That’s because it couldn’t summon a perfect partner for you, create one… because he’s already here. It’s Lestrade.”

Mycroft’s mind reels. He has suspected it, but to have it said out loud is… anxiety inducing. Gregory Lestrade? His perfect partner? It can’t be. It…

“Get out of your head and into that room,” Sherlock says, opens the door and pushes him in.

There he is, sitting on the side of the hospital bed in just a t-shirt and pants, silver hair standing up into all possible directions, the largest smile on his face Mycroft has ever seen. For a moment it feels like the sun has risen. Like he has just stepped into the light.

“Lestrade…”

“It’s Greg, Mycroft.”

“Gregory.”

“That’s also fine. Care to tell me why you’ve visited me in my sleep during the last few days?”

“I what?”

“Four days of sleep and a marathon of the most dirty dreams I could ever come up with. In fact some things were so new to me, it certainly wasn’t me who came up with them. I bet it was you.”

Mycroft’s ears grow red. Has the plant helped his subconscious to reach out? It is possible… 

“I’m sorry,” Mycroft mumbles. “It wasn’t… it wasn’t on purpose.”

“But you admit it was you? It was you who imagined having me all these ways.”

Mycroft swallows. Then he nods.

“I don’t remember. I know something happened, but the content of the dreams… they’re gone from my head.”

Greg leans back and opens his legs.

“That’s too bad. Guess I’ll have to be the one to make you remember.”

“I… I…” Mycroft sputtered. His heart rose into his throat. 

“Speechless?”

“I’m a witch,” he blurts out. “I practice witchcraft. The dreams came from a spell, which wasn’t completely in my hands. I’m so sorry.”

Greg frowns. Mycroft’s eyes fill with tears. This is it. Greg will tell him he is mad. He will tell him to fuck off, like the other ones have done. Mycroft is about to turn away when Greg speaks up.

“Prove it,” he says.

“What?”

“What can you do? Show me something.”

He’s been there before. Oliver. He had wanted proof. The proof he got had screwed with his mind and made him run off in fear. Well, it’s one way to get it over with. Mycroft walks towards Greg and is at least slightly consoled by the way the other doesn’t draw back. He opens his hand and holds it out.

“Give me your arm, please.”

Greg does so without hesitation. Mycroft carefully removes the drip from his vein and together they watch the blood run over Greg’s skin. Before it can fall to the floor, Mycroft puts a finger in the drop and with it moves the blood back up, leaving nothing but clean skin in its wake. When he reaches the puncture wound, he presses on it slightly, then pulls back his finger. The wound is gone. Greg pulls his arm away and stares intently at the spot. Mycroft holds his breath.

“That’s…”

“Scary.” — “Brilliant!” they say at the same time.

Mycroft looks up. “What?”

“I said that’s brilliant! What a wonderful ability to have! What else can you do?”

Mycroft suddenly feels so lightheaded he thinks he might pass out. Before he can decide on running, he picks a petal from one of the flowers Greg has been given as a get-well present. Between his fingers it multiplies, turning into a storm swirling around them. Greg doesn’t look threatened. He looks rapturous. Mycroft starts crying. No, he’s downright sobbing. The petals fall to the floor like rain, and just like that Greg’s arms are around him.

“It’s alright. Take your time. Then take me home and tell me everything.”

Mycroft’s heart has been beating for all his life, but only now it feels like it’s truly coming alive.


End file.
